Woodley’s brows contracted in a frown as Garth kept on, with no sign of stopping. The tirade against the hedonists was mingled with a queer sort of boasting that was definitely reminiscent of something. Woodley remembered other things about Garth that affected him unpleasantly as he considered them. Certain fumbling, groping gestures, brief hesitations in his speech, searchings for words, a querulous note . . . of what did this remind him?
Suddenly he knew, with a sense of abysmal shock. An old man who was part of his memories before 1942 had talked and acted thus. An oldster who groped for words childishly ranted against those he thought hated him. Persecution complex? Insanity? No. Merely senility.
Garth had lived for more than a century and a half. The minds of the savages outside, like their bodies, were frozen into a state of stasis, in which they moved blindly and uncomprehendingly. But for a hundred and thirty years Garth had thought and worked and remembered, and he was old.
A vagrant thought came to Woodley, something he had once read about immortals. But those immortals had been toothless, blind, deaf, declared legally dead by the authorities, sunken in a hopeless apathy of senility in which only the thought of food meant anything, and all food was tasteless to their dulled senses. Garth was not like that, but he was unquestionably senile. That would explain his vicious hatred for the hedonists.
Woodley wondered just how much of Garth’s mind remained. It was like playing with dynamite, to have for an ally a man who might at any time relapse into the unpredictable vagaries of old age. So that was the penalty of immortality!
HORROR shook Woodley. More than ever he was determined to save mankind from its fate. He saw a picture of the world a thousand years in the future, peopled by beings no longer even savages, monstrous parodies of mankind degraded beyond all imagination.
Interrupting Garth, he asked an obvious question.
“You say you are in a position of power here. Just what is that position?”
It was far more likely that the scientist, his mind slowly crumbling, would be entrusted with mechanical duties, rather than anything that called for clear and intense thinking. Garth looked up, startled.
“Eh? What is it? I lied to you, Woodley. I have no power here. Vanity on my part, but you’d find out the truth eventually. I wasn’t sure that I could trust you, either, so I wore this mask. They made me a slave! Oh, not hard work. Not even that. They gave me a duty that I’d have relegated to a schoolboy. They said my mind was failing. They lied! After what I’ve done, the things I’ve created—”
He made a broad gesture.
“Look about you. This ruined world was a work of destruction, but it took intelligence to bring it about. I made man immortal! The price was too heavy. I had not expected that. But I made man immortal, and I gave the hedonists their genius. They forgot me. Their first memories faded swiftly. Their children and grandchildren said my brain was wearing out. I should have ruled Center, for without me it could never have existed. They—they—”
He stumbled, then went on with fresh vigor.
“They tricked me, saw to it that I failed at every task I was given. At first I had all the facilities I needed, including a laboratory of my own.”
Woodley could visualize the tragic picture. Garth, his mind already weakened by his near-immortality, had tried frantically to remember, to focus his brain upon the science which he should have had at his fingertips. Groping and failing again and again, relentlessly he degenerated to duties that any menial could hold. He did not need to work at all, of course. But even a fool’s task was better than complete inaction.
He must have longed bitterly for the past days of triumphal experiment in the laboratory. And so he had come to hate the hedonists, telling himself that they were responsible for his fate. A mind in ruin—fit judgment for the man who had ruined the world. Yet it was horrible.
Woodley shook off a feeling of hopeless depression. Garth’s help was better than none, and perhaps he underestimated the scientist’s capabilities.
“This is my idea,” he said. “I’ll pretend to fall in with this way of life. I’ll apparently be assimilated into the system. Suspicion will be lulled, and when we strike, there’ll be less difficulty. We must learn all we can about the counterray projector, first of all.”
“Yes, I suppose so.”
“You know a girl named Sharn? She may help us, and your friend Rogur is unhappy here, too, I think.”
The masked figure was motionless. “You saw that?” Garth breathed. Briefly Woodley thought of the shadow he had seen in Rogur’s deep-set eyes, the depression on the dark, strong young face. Abruptly Garth laughed. With a swift motion he drew the hood from his face. A shock of amazement stiffened Woodley.
Garth was Rogur!
CHAPTER XI
Dreams
ROGUR was young, darkly handsome, clean-limbed and cleareyed as a boy. But within that lithe body was the weary, senile mind of an old man! Somehow it seemed utterly wrong that Rogur should not have grown wiser and greater with the years. Weariness might have looked out of those dark eyes, but great intelligence should also have been there.
It was more horrible than anything Woodley had ever known. It was clear to him now. Physically the scientist had not aged. He had remained as young and strong as he had been in 1942. His body was perfect, all his senses keenly attuned with youth, like a well constructed machine. But the guiding force of the machine was feeble, old, and unable to guide it.
“Long ago my name was Roger Garth,” the scientist said bitterly. “Now it is merely Rogur. This secret meeting was necessary, though. The hedonists have sharp eyes and ears. Nor was I sure whether I could trust you.”
“I see,” Woodley said thoughtfully. With an effort he concentrated on the problem at hand. “Well, my idea still holds good. I’ll lull suspicion by—”
“Don’t trust the girl,” Rogur broke in. “Don’t trust any of them. They act on whim. For a little while she may befriend you, but when it comes to giving up her comforts and pleasures, she’ll betray you.”
“I don’t think so,” Woodley said with conviction.
“I know these people.” Rogur closed his deep-set eyes wearily. “You must go back now. No suspicion must be created. I’ll see you tomorrow, as your guide.”
He watched Woodley enter the pneumo-tube car.
“Remember,” he called, before the door slid shut. “Don’t trust the girl!”
The vehicle streaked away. Automatic controls brought it swiftly to Woodley’s own suite. His absence had not been discovered, he decided, though it was long past midnight. Dawn was slowly brightening the darkness of the eastern sky.
He undressed, pondering over what he had learned. Despite himself, a little germ of doubt had been planted. Sham seemed friendly enough, and certainly did not intend to betray him—now. But as Rogur had said, she might be acting merely on whim, believing her motive to be something more valid than it actually was. At the crucial moment, she might well balk at the prospect of a future of hardship and toil.
Even if the hedonists maintained their isolation after the restoration of the rest of mankind, there would still exist for them a danger that had not existed previously. Nothing could harm them now, they thought. But in a world peopled by intelligent beings rather than savages, the situation would be somewhat different. What assurance could Woodley give the hedonists that their isolation would be respected afterward?
It was a dangerous game he played, but for the highest stakes. He could not afford to take unnecessary chances. If Sham helped him, well and good.
But he would give her no chance to betray him to her people.
HE could not sleep. He kept remembering Janet and wondering how she fared back in Long Island, with the savage tribe led by Geth and Sand. Who had those two been, in the days prior to 1942? Business men, politicians or criminals? Woodley sighed. Perhaps it would have been better had he never awakened from his dull oblivion. He would never have been conscious then of the doubts and
fears that beset him now.
There was so much to do. How could he, alone save for doubtful aid, triumph over a civilization of geniuses? Yet the seeds of weakness had been sowed with those of genius. The hedonists were decadent. They were not fighters. And Woodley, conscious of the hard muscles that rippled beneath his bronzed skin, realized that for a long time he had been fighting against hostile environment and enemies. True, he had been mindless then.
But now he believed that he was stronger than any of the pleasure-seeking men of Center. He would need that strength, and all the stamina and energy he possessed. With that thought in mind, he slept.
It was late when he awoke, but he felt fresh courage. New plans had come. Without delay he started to put them in operation. It could not be done in a day, of course, but he could at least make a beginning. Suspicion must be lulled. The hedonists would naturally be wary of an outsider from the past. To make a sudden reversal from his previous attitude would be far from convincing.
Woodley merely let himself be guided passively about the city, making few comments. But he evinced interest in many things, nor did he need to pretend this. For Center was a wonderland. Toil had been transmuted alchemically into pleasure here. It was futile to ask:
“What is the justification of this mode of life?”
“Why do we need justification?” the hedonists would have replied.
To that there was no answer, since they seemed undismayed by the prospect of decadence and the ultimate death of their race. It was fatalism carried to the last degree.
Rogur decided to quit his task of guide. It would be better not to court possible suspicion, he explained, and Woodley agreed.
“I’ll communicate with you when necessary,” the scientist said. “Meanwhile we can’t take direct action. I’ll find out all I can about the ray projector.”
For that day, and days thereafter, Woodley viewed Center with the aid of a new guide. The dream palaces especially fascinated him. Dreams could be induced by vibration that impinged directly on the brain, a development of an old device that used sonic waves. Machines could create master patterns, matrices, but these were not as satisfactory as those made by human minds. Woodley was reminded of musicians composing symphonies. He let himself test the “dream organs.”
He was taken into a small room, furnished only by a low couch and a network of shimmering wires across the ceiling. He was given a soporific and asked what sort of dreams he desired. It was difficult to answer.
“I’ll leave it to you,” Woodley said drowsily as he relaxed on the couch.
His eyes closed, opened again when a flicker of wavelike vibration shifted over the wires upon the ceiling. Then the dreams came.
WOODLEY was strolling through a garden with long, slow steps like the glide of a fish through water, effortless and smooth. Fragrance was all around him, and the susurrus of a breeze through leaves swaying in the dim green air. Long ropes of hanging flowers brushed his face as he glided through the grass. There was fruit there, half-hidden among the shadows on the ground. Golden melons, purple globes of nameless fruit lay thicker underfoot as he advanced.
Presently he stumbled and felt himself falling with no sensation of dismay at all. The flowering vines caught him gently, caressed him as he fell. They let him down slowly upon the cushioning grass, amid a shower of drifting petals that touched his face like the stroke of cool silk.
He found the weightless globe of a melon under his palm and lifted it to his lips. Without effort he found himself eating the cool, delicious flesh within it. Sweet juice trickled down his throat, crisp mouthfuls crunching between his teeth.
There was music in the green shadowy air. The melon had vanished from his fingers. He was lying on one elbow, peering through the flowers toward an advancing figure that seemed clothed in melody.
A slim brown girl was coming through the hanging vines, and music rose-and fell with every motion of her body. She wore a garment of strung pearls woven into fantastic patterns. At each step the pearls rustled together with the sound of music more sensuous than he had ever heard before.
Was she singing? He could not be sure, but she was moving around him now in a slow dance, and the music of her pearly robe swelled and sank and swelled through the vague air. The trees behind her shifted into new patterns and became swirls of changing color. She bent toward him, holding out bare brown arms from which the pearly garment fell away.
He took her hands, rose to his feet effortlessly. The girl spun away with a rising whirl of music as her pearl-strung robe rang sweetly. He leaned forward into the air, as if into supporting arms. Suddenly, without surprise, he found himself flying.
It was like riding air-currents. He soared high and floated low over the changing scenery of a beauty seen only in dreams. The brown girl drifted just ahead, the music of her garments ringing in his ears.
Smoothly scene melted into scene, sensation into sensation, color into color, the music of the girl’s pearl-hung robe running like a motif all through the melting episodes of the dream. Time had ceased. Effort did not exist. There was nothing in life but the dreaming present, where all good things offered themselves and were enjoyed and vanished soundlessly to make way for more. But the slim brown girl drifted always ahead of him, just out of reach.
He woke slowly, the ringing music of her garment still in his ears. For a few moments he lay with closed eyes, given up to the exquisite memories of things past. There was an even more exquisite sorrow mingled with the memories of delight, sorrow for the lost music and the sweet brown girl he had never touched and would never see again. Without that delicate bitterness the dream would have lost half its savor.
It was difficult for him to realize that some deliberate craftsman had composed the dream, put it together note by note and color by color, deftly linking it all together and sharpening it to an edged beauty with the slender girl whom the dreamer could never hope to touch.
HE opened his eyes reluctantly, haunted by the sound of her garment and the fading memories of beauty. But he remembered Janet, grew sick with a soul-shaking yearning for the girl he had loved before Judgment Day. She was somehow part of his dream.
Cursing, he sprang up from the softly padded couch. Almost he found himself hating the hedonists as bitterly as did Rogur. Then sanity came back. When the door opened to disclose the attendant, Woodley was again in control of himself.
“No more now,” he said.
For the rest of the day he tried to forget, to lose himself in analyzing the civilization in which he dwelt.
But later he revisited the dream palaces. Again and again he experienced the strange, manufactured visions of the hedonists. They appealed to all his senses, and in all of them he found the same undernote of bitterness, of gray futility. It was the subconscious hopelessness of a slowly dying race that saw no escape and consciously sought for none.
In all the dreams Woodley found that he was a passive agent. That appeared significant. The elements of personal conflict and initiative had been lost, even in dreams. It was this that gave him a new idea.
He decided to become a dream composer.
In such a position he could subtly influence the minds of the hedonists, as he had already influenced Sham’s. The girl was wholeheartedly with him now, though he had taken Rogur’s advice and refused to give her his complete confidence, particularly since she seemed to make little headway. A few people were vaguely interested, but it was difficult to rouse them from their apathy. Apathy wasn’t the word. Opium-scented visions described it better.
Remembering the possibility that Sham might betray him, Woodley pretended to have become lukewarm in his desire to free mankind from savagery. But he made sure that Sharn would continue her efforts. It was too much like tricking the girl to sit easily on his conscience, yet he saw no other way out. Later he could make amends.
So Woodley pretended more and more to fall in with the way of his hosts. He took pains not to make the transition too sudden to seem convincing.
At times he showed sudden flashes of distaste for all that existed in Center, but these flashes came progressively less often. When he finally was summoned to the Senate, it wasn’t difficult to pretend complete conversion.
“I was wrong,” he admitted. “But your life was new to me then. Even now I don’t know if I’d like this sort of existence forever, but I’m willing to try it for awhile.”
The graybearded Senate leader smiled.
“You are free to do exactly as you choose.”
“Well, my position isn’t easy. I’m sure I wouldn’t enjoy inaction.”
“We work when we wish.”
“I’d need work for awhile, anyway. But what can I do?”
“You have seen the city. Make your choice.”
Woodley deliberately offered several suggestions which he knew would not be practicable, tasks for which he was manifestly unfitted because of lack of specialized training.
“I’d like to try dream composing,” he said at last. “Is that difficult?”
“Some can never master the trick,” the graybeard replied, “just as some can never compose a symphony in sonic music. Imagination is necessary and the ability to focus the will. But if you can do that, and wish to, you may. I’ll assign someone to explain the method.” Triumph leaped within Woodley, but he kept the emotion well hidden. So far the hedonists were not suspicious. It was up to him to keep their suspicions lulled from now on.
“You may have some interesting dreams to compose,” the Senate leader stated thoughtfully. “Your freshness may create new variations on old themes. It is a good idea.”
CHAPTER XII
Desperation
THE training began immediately. At his own request, Woodley was taken to a dream palace and showed into a room that resembled one of the sleeping chambers where the dreams were broadcast. The ceiling was of woven wire.
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